There, on the horizon where the piercing white sands meet with the sky’s unremitting blue separating the dead desert and the glorious heaven, is a faint haze. The horizon blurs, and you can’t see beyond that thin line what is ahead.
The dry wind plays like a minstrel beside me, a ghostly flutist bidding me, wearily, on. O this sorrowful note, this waterless waste, must you be fire beneath my feet? O lovely sky, yet dreadful eye of heaven, must you even now oppress me with your heated gaze?
I have only you beside me, but I think you’re passing, going beyond me soon, and will see what is beyond that haze I stare at. It is the seat of all mirages, and yet the spring of all hope. Whisper to me, when you’re there, and tell me what it is, what’s beyond, what’s always ahead but never touched by us. I long to know. Send me some wind to relay the far off bars of that world.
Or else, please send me some rain, some comfort in this desert, this world of dust.
Tale Told 